"Come, what is that door?"
"That is a little room."
"Then open it."
"I cannot," returned Lisa. "It is locked."
"Aha!" said the man, with a laugh of much meaning. "On the inside,
eh?"
He went to it, and banged on it with his fist.
"Come," he shouted, "open it and be done."
There was a short silence, during which those in the kitchen
listened breathlessly. A shuffling sound inside the door made the
officer of the law turn and beckon to his two men to come closer.
Then, after some fumbling, as of one in the dark, the door was
unlocked and slowly opened.
Papa Barlasch stood in a very primitive night-apparel within the
door. He had not done things by halves, for he was an old
campaigner, and knew that a thing half done is better left undone in
times of war. He noted the presence of Desiree and Lisa, but was
not ashamed. The reason of it was soon apparent. For Papa Barlasch
was drunk, and the smell of drink came out of his apartment in a
warm wave.
"It is the soldier billeted in the house," explained Lisa, with a
half-hysterical laugh.
Then Barlasch harangued them in the language of intoxication. If he
had not spared Desiree's feelings, he spared her ears less now; for
he was an ignorant man, who had lived through a brutal period in the
world's history the roughest life a man can lead. Two of the men
held him with difficulty against the wall, while the third hastily
searched the room--where, indeed, no one could well be concealed.
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